Lucky Pot
by Otoshigo
Summary: England and America don't get on well... at all. So why is America suddenly showing up at his house? And what's this about a potluck?


"We're doing a _what?_ "

England stared over at his unwanted visitor, his work in front of him entirely forgotten, pen threatening to slip from his fingers. America merely grinned wide, almost bouncing on his heels.

"A potluck!" he replied excitedly. "Didn't you hear me the first time, old man? Your hearing must be going bad."

The older nation openly scowled at him. It was a mark of intimacy, really, that he was so open with his emotions around his former colony. They were close alright. Like Cain and Abel. "Yes, I heard you," he snapped irritably, forcibly turning his attention back to his work. "I just have no idea why you had to fly over here to tell me something that you could have just as easily told me over the phone."

America scoffed at this, folding his arms over his leather jacket. "It's not like I came over just to tell _you._ You're not that special."

England's heart clenched painfully at the reminder. He doubted that he would ever be special to America ever again. Not like when he was a child. Turning away to hide how much the barb stung, England demanded sharply, "I have no intention of participating in some event that will only give you the opportunity to mock my cooking." Which was perfectly _fine,_ in his opinion. It was not his fault that other nations did not share his palate.

America gave a squawk of indignation. "You _can't!_ " he cried, stomping his foot as though he were but 50 years old again. " _Everyone_ has to participate! That's the whole point! We're supposed to be sharing our cultures and learning each other's foods and everything."

England turned back and narrowed his eyes. "Exactly _whose_ idea was this? France? Italy?"

"Everyone's," America replied.

"...Right. That explains so much," the older nation deadpanned, when it became clear that the other blond wasn't going to elaborate. His suspicions only rose as America squirmed uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

"Look, don't be all crotchety and moody, just cook something and bring it," America replied, whirling on his heel to leave England's study.

"Wait, you didn't even tell me when this is!" England called after the boy.

"Check your email!" came the voice down the hall.

Stunned, England checked and saw sure found the email invitation among his two hundred yet to be read. "Why the bloody hell did you even come here then?!" he cried out, only to be cut off by the structural rumble of America slamming the front door behind him.

Silently fuming, England could only assume that America had come just to be a complete pain in the arse, as usual. Too agitated to continue working, he opened up the invitation on the special Nation listserv and read the contents.

 _INTERNATIONAL POTLUCK_

 _August 13, 12:00 PM  
New York HQ, Main Ballroom_

 _In order to foster a culture of sharing and global understanding, the World Conference will host an international potluck. Each nation is expected to bring a dish representative of their culture to showcase at the event._

Showcase. Oh bloody hell. This was going to turn into some sort of culinary competition, wasn't it? His mood growing worse, England impatiently drummed his fingers on top of his mouse, growing more and more forceful. Until suddenly, he slammed a fist on top of his desk hard enough to make the wood creak. Well, _fine._ He was going to show them. He was going to make the damned best dish out of _all_ of them and then he'd show them who was the (former) British Empire!

~o~

"Err... what exactly did you make?" Canada asked politely, looking down at the large pot of sludge that England had hauled up to the main ballroom. Most other nations were already merrily sampling each other's dishes, chatting jovially as they milled around the near two-hundred dishes that were lined up along the long banquet tables. France was the most popular naturally, quickly followed by Italy and Thailand, glowing in the attention as they explained their cuisines. Even America's stack of McDonald's sandwiches were getting discretely consumed - the guilty pleasure of the entire world.

England, meanwhile, stewed in his chair nearby his own untouched pot, his expression as black and as foul as his bubbling cauldron. He knew for a _fact_ that his dish was not the worst one out there, but with it came the reputation. He resolutely refused to eat anyone else's cooking, until he saw someone eat his. It was a matter of pride, even as his stomach grumbled in protest. And India's curry just smelled _so good._

"It's beef stew," England replied, trying to keep his tone from growing curt with Canada. The other blond's mouth formed a small 'o' of understanding. Canada studied the pot a little longer, now awkwardly caught in the tractor beam of England's expectant gaze. He opened his mouth again and England leaned just a little bit forward in anticipation...

Only to watch in horror as America suddenly tackled his twin from behind. "Bro~! You haven't eaten my food yet!" he cried, shoving a Big Mac into Canada's mouth and effectively silencing him.

England's temper flashed white and he shot up from his seat. "What on earth did you do that for?!" he demanded, roughly shoving at America's chest. The younger nation didn't even budge, which was even more infuriating. "Is it so terrible that someone would want to eat my cooking?!" Several sets of eyes turned in their direction disinterestedly, perhaps wondering why it took this long for a fight to break out.

"Will you just chillax? Jeez," America replied, completely unfazed as he looked down at England's pot. He sniffed it warily. "Are you sure that's even edible?" he asked, garnering a few snickers. "People will probably die of food poisoning if they tried it!"

England's face heated to extreme degrees of utter mortification, as the snickering only grew worse. Then France, his damnable arch nemesis decided to chip in. "Ah, British Cuisine. Such an oxymoron," he _ohonhoned_ , delicately twirling a decorative ladle like one of his precious roses.

"Hey! He's not a moron!" America shot back, in a rare moment of defending the Brit. It would almost be heart-warming, if the boy hadn't just proven how unbearably _dense_ he could be. Groaning into his palm, England almost didn't notice when America easily picked up the heaping pot from the table. "Anyway, I think this thing needs saving from your awful cooking, so I'll just take this out of the way," he said, trying to discretely secret the pot away under everyone's eyes.

"Don't you dare!" England snapped, jumping up to grab one of the handles from beneath America's vice-like fingers. "You put it right back, you great lummox!" He bore his weight back, futilely attempting to tug the pot back in the direction of his little spot amidst the rows of dishes. However, he only succeeded in getting carpet burn along his soles as America pulled back.

"God, you're so freaking stubborn! Why can't you just let me be the hero to save everyone from your cooking!" America snapped back.

"No one asked for your help!"

"Let go!"

"You let go!"

The nations watched in rapt attention as the heated tug-o-war ensued, wondering if the smaller nation would yield or simply be dragged along the carpet. After all, there was no winning a contest of strength with the superpower. Yet England would not give in. He'd never give in. Not when he'd sweated and toiled over this stew, cooking it for two days straight with all the care and pride he could muster. He was _not_ going to let America win this one.

Then suddenly, a sharp squeal of metal pierced the air, soon followed by the ugly splash of hot slush against carpet and an audible gasp. America and England stood stock still, covered in stew (with England getting the brunt of it) with an empty pot and a broken handle in their hands. The rest of it scattered across the floor like a technicolour yawn.

England stared down at it, too shocked to hear the cry of outrage from Germany and the scolding that ensued. He could only look on in mute horror at the remnants of all his hard work gone completely to waste.

"You _ruined_ it!"

To everyone's surprise, it was America's cry that had pierced through Germany's scolding. England looked up from the floor to meet the younger nation's expression, only to blink stupidly when he saw those bright blue eyes shine too wetly. However, he didn't have the chance to inquire, when America turned heel and fled out of the ballroom. Even before he left, the frenetic whispering had started, like Twitter gone audible.

Coming up to take England's arm, Japan murmured softly, "You should go and crean up." Nodding, England let himself be taken away to the washroom on the opposite side of the ballroom.

~o~

"Here you are, Igirisu-san," Japan said, handing a wad of paper towels over to England.

"Thank you," the blond replied, as he tried to do damage control on his suit. However, he suspected that no amount of dry cleaning would be able to fix this. Damn, it was his favourite one too! Giving up, he leaned over the sink, glaring at the ugly dark stains mottling his shirt and trousers. "Damn that boy!" he cried, slapping a hand against the marble and making Japan jump. "He should have just left well enough alone instead of causing all this mess!"

Japan put a well-meaning consoling hand to England's shoulder. It did a little to soothe the blond's temper, but not by much. "First, he comes to my house and demands that I cook something. Then he tries to throw it out before anyone even has a chance to taste it. And he has the gall to say that _I_ ruined it? Absolutely ludicrous!" Another sympathetic nod. " _What_ could I have possibly ruined? His clothes? That's his own fault! And his precious bloody jacket didn't even get hit!"

"Perhaps he meant ze pot-ruck?" Japan interjected uncertainly.

At that England turned to give the other island nation a sceptical look. "The potluck? Why should he care? He hardly put any effort into the thing. He only brought McDonald's sandwiches!"

However, Japan shook his head. "He organized everyzing," he said in explanation. "It had taken him months to convince Doitsu-san zat it would not turn into a food fight." Which of course, it did. "Zen he sent ze invitations and set up the ballroom for ze event."

England could only nod slowly. Yet it still struck him as incredibly bizarre. America wouldn't bother with such a mundane activity like a potluck. Even if he did, he would crow about _his_ involvement and _his_ contribution to the heavens. Then proceed to blow the entire thing up into ridiculous proportions. So why sneak around and pretend that he had nothing to do with it?

After a pensive moment, the blond merely shook his head. "I doubt it's that. He was probably just talking about his shoes. Please, go back to the party. I should make my way home and get changed."

"Yes, of course. Have a good evening, Igirisu-san," Japan replied with a short bow, before heading back to the festivities. England only remained in the washroom another moment longer to _tsk_ softly over his ruined clothes, before taking his jacket and leaving headquarters without so much as a word to the other party-goers.

~o~

" _You ruined it!"_ America's voice cried, his tearful expression painted vividly in England's imagination.

He stared up at the darkened ceiling above his bed, sleep doggedly eluding him. Unfortunately, despite the fact that America had been so utterly _imbecilic_ , his moment of genuine distress was not leaving England's mind easily. "Absolutely ridiculous. Why should I care?" he demanded of his fae companions fluttering by his bed. They were unhelpful, tittering restlessly to start their dream-eating.

Sighing, he rolled over, trying to see if the view of his wardrobe would alleviate his insomnia.

No such luck.

"What the fuck did I ruin!" he cried, throwing his sheets off of him in a fit of pique. Too temperamental to think of sleeping, England headed down through the dark wood panelled halls of his home and to the relatively small kitchen to fix himself a cuppa. His mood soured when he saw the evidence of his cooking escapades littering the table and the counter. Some sauce on the stove, some potato peel on the counter, a bit of... was that the cutting board? on the floor. The minute remains of his work. Really, why did he bother, when America only saw fit to nick his stew away?

...Why _did_ America insist on tossing the stew himself? If he had only just left it on its own, England would have taken care to dispense with the remains. He could normally blame it on sheer overzealousness and thoughtlessness, but it niggled annoyingly at the back of his mind. Like a jigsaw piece that nearly, but did not quite, fit its puzzle

He settled down at the table with a cup of chamomile tea, letting the warmth seep into his cool fingers. The herbs did the rest in soothing his agitation and he relaxed against the kitchen chair as he sipped his drink. Only then did it occur to him...

What proof did he have that America was actually going to toss his food?

Other than his word, which until this instant he had no reason to doubt. Yet why would America stage a potluck, come over to his home to insist he cook, then... then try to steal his food right from under his nose? Knowing that it was destined for the bin if he didn't do so?

...Was this really just some over elaborate scheme to be able to eat his food without admitting he wanted it?

If so, it was the most convoluted hoax he could imagine just to taste someone's cooking... which sounded _just_ like America.

England thought it over, wondering if he was simply reading too much into it. After all, it was fact that America loathed him and his presence. Maybe he was just overcome with childhood nostalgia, but their relationship was... rocky at best. Which must have prompted this entire affair.

Honestly, he didn't know whether he should feel insulted or flattered that America had come up with this ruse to eat his cooking without asking for it. However, he felt the memory of America's distress far more keenly, now that he knew what it was the boy had been after. He closed his eyes again, seeing image so vividly as though America were right there. "All this over stew," England murmured with a mirthless chuckle.

Well, he would have to fix that, won't he?

~o~

A week later, England stood in front of America's door, feeling anxious, nervy. Should he have called ahead? No, no, he shouldn't have. If it wasn't related to work, America would have made arrangements to avoid him. Sucking in a breath, he steeled himself and pressed the buzzer.

...What if he wasn't even there?

A bolt of panic shot through him when he heard footsteps and realized that America _was_ there. Oh God. Maybe this was a terrible idea. He should really-

Before he could react, the door swung open and America stood there in his sweatpants, blinking stupidly at England. "What are you doing here?" he asked, simultaneously surly and suspicious. They hadn't spoken since the potluck after all. Not to mention, England had shown up from across the pond without so much as a word or a suitcase, but with a bag of groceries.

"I require the use of your kitchen," England replied, holding his chin up high.

Not surprisingly, America replied with an intelligent, "Hah?"

"I'm in a hotel nearby without a kitchen, so I need to use yours." Sometimes, he could mislead the lad by explaining illogical things in a completely rational tone. He was well aware the accent helped.

Finally, the confused look dimmed and in its place was a sour glare. Standing in doorframe, America crossed his arms over his chest as though standing his ground. "I don't see why I should let you. You'll probably burn the place down."

England was slightly encouraged by the fact that the door hadn't slammed in his face.

Shimmying past America, England popped in and brushed himself off. "I am not going to burn the place down," he called back, further encouraged when America did not make any effort to stop him. "I am just going to make some shepherd's pie and I will be on my way."

Settling himself in the kitchen, England brought out all of the groceries and laid them out over the counter. Then he familiarized himself with the kitchen implements before getting started. As he was doing so, he felt America's presence lurking in the background. Turning around, he found the boy hovering halfway into the kitchen doorway, clinging to the frame. It reminded England so keenly of his baby colony waiting for his supper. A sharp bittersweet pang ached in his chest, forcing his attention back to his preparations before he could react too strongly.

"Would you like to help?" he called suddenly, tossing the lamb and some herbs into a buttered pan.

"Help?" America echoed.

"Yes, assist, aid, support," England replied, glancing back to give the boy an amused smile. He gestured over to the bag of potatoes. "I think you can manage the mash." America grumbled a bit as he stepped into the kitchen, but didn't argue. He prepped beside England, silently putting himself to task.

Every so once in a while, England looked up from his work just because the boy was being so quiet. It struck him just how surreal this was, to stand next to America like this side by side. Not in war, not in official functions, but in simple, mundane domesticity. Then America would look up and catch his eye and in that instant, neither of them breathed. They would quickly look away before the ' _too muchness'_ got to them.

After two hours, England pulled the shepherd's pie out of the oven and placed it on the kitchen counter. America stared at it openly in hunger, finally reassuring the older nation that he was right all along. Checking his watch, England put on his most nonchalant tone, "It looks about time for tea. Would you like some?"

America's eyes snapped up in surprise. Then the struggle came, his throat working awkwardly as his expression grew conflicted. England stayed very still, patiently waiting for the other blond to realize that it was only just the two of them. _Just_ the two of them, ha.

Finally, America swallowed and nodded. Suddenly able to breathe, England smiled and found a spatula. He dished the boy a heaping bowl of it, giving him nearly half. America immediately set upon it like a man starved for decades. He had already inhaled half before England even started on his own small plate. The older nation only _tsk_ ed softly, before he dished up the rest of it for America to relish.

"Do you like it?" England asked, when the boy had settled into a more sedate pace. He stifled a yawn, feeling the time difference setting in.

America considered for a moment, before answering, "It doesn't taste right." Before England could react, he added. "It's the mashed potatoes. There's not any weird lumps or crunchy bits. You shouldn't've asked me to help you," he said accusingly as he narrowed his eyes.

"O-oh..." England replied, stunned. Come to think of it, he did leave some of the peel in sometimes. Perhaps that was the missing element.

However, America continued on in childlike haughtiness, "That's okay. You'll just have to do it right next time. But maybe not shepherd's pie again. You need to do pasties and fish n' chips. Ooh, what's that other thing - bubble and squeak? Oh! And toad in the hole and Eton mess and..."

America trailed off, his lips pulling back into a smile as he watched England descend into a fit of laughter.


End file.
